ined to fight at once and risk his fate as a commander on the
issue of victory or defeat. His council of war had voted against an
attack on Lee's army in Fredericksburg. Burnside brushed their decision
aside as part of the quarrel McClellan has left. Even the men in the
ranks were fighting each other daily in these miserable bickerings and
intrigues. A victory was the remedy for their troubles, and he made up
his mind to fight for it.

The General received Betty with the greatest courtesy:

"You're more than welcome at this moment, Miss Winter. The surgeons
won't let you in some of their field hospitals. But there's work to be
done preparing our corps for the battle we're going to fight. You'll
have plenty to do."

"Thank you, General," she gravely answered.

Burnside read for the second time the gracious letter from the President
which Betty presented.

"You're evidently pretty strong with this administration, Miss Betty,"
he remarked.

"Yes. The patience and wisdom of the President is a hobby of mine."

"Then I'll ask you to review the army with me. You can report to him."

Within an hour they were passing in serried lines before the Commander.
Betty watched them march with a thrill of patriotic pride, a hundred and
thirteen thousand men, their dark blue uniforms pouring past like the
waters of a mighty river, the December sun gleaming on their polished
bayonets as on so many icicles flashing on its surface.

Her heart suddenly stood still. There before her marched John Vaughan in
the outer line of a regiment, his eyes straight in front, looking
neither to the right nor the left. He was a private in the ranks, clean
and sober, his face rugged, strong and sun-tanned.

For a moment there was a battle inside that tested her strength. He had
not seen her and was oblivious of her existence apparently. But she had
noted the regiment under whose flag he marched. It would be easy to find
him if she wished.

When the first moment of love-sickness and utter longing passed, she had
no desire to see him. The dead could bury its dead. Her love was a thing
of the past. The cruel thing in this man's nature she had seen the first
day was there still. She saw it with a shudder in his red, half-drunken
eyes the day they met in Washington, saw it so plainly, so glaringly,
the memory of it could never fade. He was sober and in his right mind
now, his cheeks bronzed with the new life of sunshine and open air the
army had give